


Holding Hands

by Othalla



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Agoraphobia, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Light Angst, Panic Attacks, Snark, this can be read either as shippy or platonic as you please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 15:44:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12171912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Othalla/pseuds/Othalla
Summary: Earth scares the shit out of Clarke.





	Holding Hands

**Author's Note:**

> murphy is so pretty someone kill me i don't even watch this show >:(

Earth scares the shit out of Clarke.

Logically, that makes sense; she’s grown up on the Ark where all spaces has abrupt endings and she spent the last year locked up in a tiny box of a room all by herself; add to that a life full of stories about how much Earth has been fucked over, bombs and fallout and radiation and the folly of the human race. If she hadn’t been fucking terrified, after being strapped down in her seat to freefall through the atmosphere, something would be _wrong_.

When the doors open wide Octavia laughs and runs outside with her arms spread wide, greeting this new world with a smile so big it almost cuts her face apart. The others follow her; hesitant at first but then moving faster and faster, tripping over themselves and each other, and Clarke has never felt so set apart in her whole life.

These kids are not like her.

They look happy, a little wary but deep down relieved, standing outside in non-recycled air. They see the possibilities instead of just the setbacks, chances to succeed instead of just predetermined doom; the dangers that rolls on a loop in front of Clarke’s eyes. Everything that could go wrong, that will go wrong, piling on top of each other and burying her in a vision of their undoing.

They die a million deaths in the space of a second.

The panic lurks like a monster at the fringes of her mind, creeping closer until it’s breathing down her neck, and Clarke does her best to not take mind of the wet panting noise. She squeezes her eyes closed and counts to ten, but instead of helping it only make the noise worse. It’s overwhelming, taking up all space available, and suddenly the monster is all she can think about. It’s all around her and all inside, birdsong and the wind on her skin and the smell of dirt.

Clarke wants to scream but knows it won’t help. It never helps.

Digging her fingers into her wrist, her jaw clenches on nothing and makes her teeth clink together unpleasantly. She turns away from the exit and tries to find somewhere dark and quiet where she can hide and hunker this through. Somewhere she knows her back is protected, where they only can come at her from the front. Somewhere the walls are close and shielding.

The panic climbs higher up her throat, almost a living thing. As she continues finding nothing, her heart beats like a war drum in her chest, pulsing in her ears, and she stumbles over thin air. Her knees are weak, bending under her weight.

She falls, almost, only just managing to brace herself with her hand on something she doesn’t recognize. It’s dark and hard but not cold like metal or plastic, and it gives slightly when she grips it, the surface sliding as if it wasn’t attached to whatever was beneath it. Bending her neck she presses her head into it and tries to disappear into the dark space she creates with her body. She pulls herself closer with her other arm, wrapping it around whatever it is that she’s holding.

It helps.

It helps even further when the thing moves back, someplace where the white noise of the rest of the kids can’t penetrate and the light snuffs out. Her back meets a wall and hands push on her shoulders, forcing her down until she’s sitting on the floor with her head between her knees, still holding onto whoever it is that is shielding her.

A person. She’s holding a person for the first time in over a year.

Laughter bubbles out of her unbidden. The way she's clutching them probably hurts; she’s digging her nails in. She drags a hand away and puts it over her mouth to try and stifle the laughter.

They’re talking to her, softly but not gently, about things she can’t comprehend. She lets it wash over her, and that helps too. Surprisingly, that helps a lot. She’s always been alone when the world overwhelmed her, before. Her cage, either luminously white or pitch black dark, locking her in and everyone else out. It had shielded her just as much as it had hurt her.

Her breathing calms and gradually the adrenaline that’s pumping through her veins lessens until it’s only a softly rippling stream compared to the raging waterfall it had been. Time slows down.

“Hey, you hearing me now?” A hand grabs her chin and tilts her head up until she’s looking into grey eyes.

Clarke’s mouth is dry. “Yeah,” she says. Her voice cracks at the end and she wets her lips. “Yeah, I hear you.”

The boy nods and leans back slightly, releasing her chin shifting his weight. He’s crouched before her and it can’t be very comfortable. His legs got to hurt, they’ve been here for a while going by how cold she is and she hadn’t made it possible for him to move at all from how tight she’d been holding him. How tight she’s still holding him.

She can’t seem to make her fingers unclench.  She doesn’t know him, either, he’s just an unfortunate stranger that she’d latched on to and now he’s been forced to deal with her mess through no choice of his own, and she’s still holding him here.

The guilt starts welling up and Clarke doesn’t have the energy to rein it in.

“Stop that,” the boy says. He’s frowning, looking annoyed now instead of just dispassionate.

Clarke flinches. “Sorry.”

The crease between his brows grows deeper. “Whatever.”

She doesn’t have the courage to keep facing him and so she looks down at her feet. Her shoelace has come undone. She should tie it.

She doesn’t know how to tie it.

Fingers snap in front of her face and she almost hits her head against the wall drawing back.

“Hey,” the boy says. “None of that. I didn’t sit here for the last ten minutes just so you could go disappearing inside your own head again. That’s not happening.” He grabs her chin and forces her to meet his eyes again when she starts to turn away. “You got me?”

His fingers are slim but his grip is strong, almost to the point where it hurts. He’s pushing the blood away.

“I-“ Clarke cuts herself off.

The boy looks at her expectantly. “Yes?” he prompts, dragging out the _e_ sound when she doesn't finish her sentence.

Clarke swallows. “Could you stay?”

“Stay?” the boy repeats like he doesn’t know what she’s after.

“Yeah,” Clarke says and lets out a tremulous breath. “I can’t-“ she bites her lip. She’s not making any sense and she needs him to understand. He’s looking more confused by the second.

“I’ve been locked inside a box for a year,” she says finally, letting it all out in one go. “It was small and I was alone. It was quiet. Here,” she turns toward the open door where everyone else appears as dark blobs against the green background. “I don’t know how to handle here.”

“Huh.” She looks back at the boy. His eyebrows are raised; surprised, though she doesn’t know if it’s because of what she confessed or that she even confessed at all. It probably doesn’t matter.

“So you’re not going outside is what you’re saying?”

Clarke snorts. “Probably not anytime soon, no.”

“Eh.” He releases her chin for the second time in a few minutes. In the back of her mind, Clarke realizes that it’s the longest skin on skin contact she can remember. “It’s probably not worth the hype. I mean fresh air, non-recycled water, the feel of the wind in your hair, who even wants that? Better just to stay in the dropship,” he drawls without inflections, looking rather bored.

Clarke gapes for a moment. Then she says: “My thoughts exactly,” and they share a grin, his pleased and hers careful.

Shifting his weight between his legs, he looks at the space next to Clarke. “Mind if I sit down there, though? Gotta say my thighs are starting to cramp.”

“Oh, of course.” Clarke shuffles a bit to the right, leaving enough space between her and a metal seat for him to squeeze into.

He raises his eyebrows and doesn’t move.

“Sorry,” Clarke says and flushes, releasing her hold on his jacket. Her hands feels weird with all the blood suddenly flowing freely.

He sits down and their arms touch. “It’s cool.”

“Who even are you, anyway?” Clarke sort of recognizes him. The nose is very distinct and she thinks he might have been in the year below her.

“John Murphy,” he says and smirks. They’re of an even height, their faces are mere inches apart, and the thought slips almost unnoticeably into her mind that he’s sort of pretty.

“I’m Clarke,” Clarke says for lack of anything better.

“Considering you’re practically royalty, I already knew that one,” Murphy says sardonically and then his face turns rather constipated looking. He scratches his neck. “Thanks, though.”

She’s not quite certain how to respond to that. “You’re welcome?”

Murphy scowls. “Whatever,” he says sullenly and pulls at a loose thread of his shirt, going from attentive to studiously ignoring her for seemingly no reason in a flash. The tear for the loose thread starts multiplying. Without letting herself think Clarke grabs his hand in hers and intertwine their fingers.

His eyes are wide when they meet hers. “You’re ruining your shirt,” she offers for an explanation. It’s even true.

It doesn’t matter that she did it primarily because she’d thought it’d feel nice.

(She was right.)

“Alright,” Murphy says after a moment. He doesn’t take his hand back.

 

 


End file.
